| better words . . . . here there and everywhere |
Three days after my father died I still couldn't sleep the night through. I knew he was around, somewhere, in my head or behind the door. Go away, I thought. Whatever you have to say to me doesn't need to be said at 3 AM. Come back at noon, during the day, so you won't scare me and I won't wish you away. There was a voice inside my head then. My father's voice. Make sure he treats you well, he whispered. My eyes squeezed shut. Please, go away. Two weeks ago I woke up at 4 AM, still inside a dream, and saw my father standing and leaning into the doorway. Go away, come back during the day, please. It was a dream, I'm sure. But waking up to find myself already sitting up in bed was unnerving. Never marry a girl whose father's dead I read somewhere, online. It's the title of a book inspired by some Freudian theory or other. * You were his favorite you know, Mom said over breakfast on Monday. I said nothing. |
better places . . . . over under and through |